Two Seconds Too Late
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: "A look of horror that John never thought possible struck like a lightning bolt in Sherlock's eyes as he looked up." Chase after the criminal, or help your friend? Sherlock has to make a split-second decision, unfortunately he takes a split second too long.


"Where then?" the words came bounding out of the deeply curious mouth of the consulting detective.

"Where what?" questioned the salt-and-pepper haired detective inspector standing in front of him with his hands on his hips.

"Where has Parker gone, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked between gritted teeth.

"Last time we saw him he was making a run for the river. Tried to catch up with him but it was so damn dark the bastard managed to slip away." Lestrade fidgeted with his shirt sleeve in quiet frustration.

"Hm, commit a murder then run, what a plan." Sherlock mused.

"He's not as stupid as you'd like to think Sherlock, though to be fair you do believe everyone around you is a bumbling idiot, but that's not the point. We've been after this guy before. His motives are still unclear and somehow he always evades us." Lestrade looked out the window of the dimly lit office with a heavy sigh.

"Well, he obviously hasn't met me yet." An arrogant grin spread across Sherlock's pale face.

"Obviously," Lestrade mocked.

"Just give me his description and I'll have him tracked down before you can make your coffee tomorrow morning."

Lestrade hesitated, just admiring the air of confidence that somehow always permeated from Sherlock's words.

"Alright, but be careful, you never really know what this guy's gonna do."

"As usual you underestimate me Lestrade; I know what everyone is going to do."

It was eerily quiet within the hollow walls of 221B Baker Street. John sat entranced on the ancient armchair with a newspaper he was barely reading. His eyes glossed over the dull black words as his mind raced with possibilities as to where Sherlock was. He checked his phone; 10:23pm, and still no messages. Then, as if on cue, the creaky wooden door that separated Sherlock's world from the outside burst open with the world's only consulting detective bounding through.

John jumped a bit in his chair, startled by the unexpected entrance, and surprised at himself for not being used to surprises by then.

"Home so soon?" the words slithered sarcastically from John's mouth as he glanced down at the paper.

"I suppose you were worrying." Sherlock retorted.

"Do you honestly think that highly of yourself that you believe I wonder where you are twenty-four seven?" John snapped, a bit frightened by the defensiveness of his own tone.

"John tell me, the newspaper page you're reading, what does it say?" A smirk started to grow on Sherlock's face.

John sat in silence as he shot daggers at the detective. He was about to steal another look at the article when it was ripped from his hands.

"Ah, no cheating," Sherlock crumpled the paper and threw it carelessly in an odd corner.

"It said…uhm..," John began, his mind racing to remember the words he'd been staring at but not comprehending. "You didn't even tell me that you'd left. I came home and you just weren't here and Mrs. Hudson didn't know and for god's sake Sherlock you could've been lying dead in a ditch and I wouldn't know."

"Amazing."

"What is?" John asked, not knowing whether to laugh or scream.

"How fantastically paranoid the average mind is."

"_Paranoid? Average mind?_" John repeated with distaste.

"Don't you suppose if I were dead in a ditch you would know by now?" Sherlock asked with an undertone of absolutely no emotion.

"No," John's voice was suddenly cold, "No I wouldn't know because you only like to include me in your life when it is positively beneficial to you somehow."

"Good deduction. I see you're learning." A flat tone again as Sherlock rifled through various files on the desk.

And then, as if to cut right through the sudden tension in the room, there was a calm knock at the door.

"Would you get that?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"Or you could, for a change, but as I see you're so terribly busy I'll get it myself." John grumbled under his breath as he headed for the door.

The cold doorknob sent quick chills through his fingers as he turned it over, opening the door to find a tall, shadowy face staring blankly back at him.

The man was deathly pale, with hollow black eyes and short, unruly brown hair. His wordless stare made John shiver as he turned to face his flatmate.

"Sherlock?" He said, with a finger pointing to the unknown man in front of him, "Sherlock who is this?"

A look of horror that John never thought possible struck like a lightning bolt in Sherlock's eyes as he looked up.

"John close the door." He said in the quickest breath.

"What?" But before John could even turn to get another look at the man he lunged inside and jabbed his elbow into John's stomach, sending him crashing to the floor. Without hesitation the man pounced toward Sherlock like an angry carnivore craving its next victim. Sherlock immediately got out of harm's way just fast enough before grasping the ghostly man's wrists and holding him firmly still.

"How'd you find me Parker?" was all Sherlock could manage through a string of pants.

Struggling within Sherlock's hold, Parker answered with a voice so shrill and evil it made John think twice about trying to attack him from behind, "Heard you were on the case. I came here to fix that."

"Fix that?" Sherlock repeated.

Parker freed himself of Sherlock's grip and slithered a boney hand into his jet black jacket pocket, pulled out a pistol, and aimed it promptly at Sherlock's forehead.

John, finally at his feet, felt suddenly faint. Sherlock put his hands up in a reluctant surrender.

"I wouldn't do that," John's voice came out shakier than he had anticipated. In response to this Parker turned and aimed his weapon at John instead.

"And why the hell not?"

Mustering up his courage, "I've just contacted the police. They're on their way." John lied through his teeth, holding up his phone as if to offer proof.

Parker lowered his weapon, and with a sly smile, "I see. I guess I'll just have to give you a little parting gift then." And with that he turned with one swift motion and punched Sherlock square in the face.

Sherlock fell immediately backwards as Parker made a run for the stairwell, but John would not be having it. As Sherlock got to his feet he saw John speed into the stairwell and stand like a stone wall in front of it to block the suspect's escape, but Parker shoved violently through as if John was nothing but a veil of tissue paper, sending the doctor tumbling like a boulder down the steps. Sherlock was paralyzed with fear as he heard the unsettling thud of his flatmate crashing to the floor of the landing.

Snapping himself out of it, Sherlock ran as fast as he could muster, still dazed with the world half-blurred through a freshly punched eye. He ran past John without a second thought, flew through the already flung open door and was about to race into the street after the criminal before stopping dead in his tracks.

He turned sharply to John who was beginning to squirm about. Breathing heavily, Sherlock looked back and forth between the diminishing black figure of the suspect and his fallen colleague.

Then, through bated breath, John's attempt at a scream filled the dim lit hallway, "Go!" was all he shouted, and it was enough to send Sherlock whizzing out the door after Parker.

Running through the dizzying traffic lights and darkened figures, Sherlock could spot his suspect striding not very far ahead. He reached the other side of the street, eyes locked on Parker's figure slowly fading away, when Sherlock was suddenly struck with conflict.

He could run after Parker, chase him until the black of night turns into a misty blue dawn, but he'd be leaving John alone, most likely injured with the door to the flat wide open. He needed to make a split second decision, but unfortunately, after the two seconds that all of those options flashed in his mind, he had stayed on the sidewalk a split second too long.

From across the street, Sherlock heard one more loud and unsettling thud come from his open flat.

He closed his eyes tightly as he let out a long, exasperated sigh.

Upon stepping into the entryway, a tidal wave of shock and concern flooded Sherlock's face, and he drowned with terror, lost in a sea of worry.

On the steps in front of him lay his flatmate sprawled out on the lower staircase, arms flailed out in front of him, his head resting on the bottom step, soaked in a small puddle of cold blood. John didn't stir, didn't make a sound, only lay stiff and lifeless like a marionette left carelessly on the pavement by a heartless puppeteer.

Sherlock leaned down slowly, attempted to put a hand on the back of John's neck, but instinctively pulled away. As he kneeled down closer, his eyes becoming glassy, Sherlock found himself speaking out loud in a surprisingly shaky voice; "John," he started, leaning in closer to check his pulse, "John Mrs. Hudson is going to be so angry with all this blood on the stairs," he tried to laugh to himself but it only came out as a weak whimper as he touched his middle and index finger to the side of John's neck.

A rush of relief spread through the detective as he felt the slow but surely-there heartbeat of his fallen companion. He closed his eyes and let out a breathy sigh before reaching for the phone in his pocket. It was as he dialed Lestrade that Sherlock realized John must have tried to get up on his own, and instead of heading back to flat had decided to follow him outside.

Silence fell over him when he heard Lestrade's voice on the other end, as Sherlock came to the sudden conclusion that he did not have to go after Parker. He did not have to listen to John's shout.

"Hello? Sherlock? This better be good I'm at a crime scene." Came Lestrade's impatient tone on the other end.

"Lestrade, John fell. Send an ambulance." The words fell heavy like hail from Sherlock's mouth as he promptly hung up before even awaiting a response. It wasn't long before he heard the faint, but familiar wailing of sirens in the distance. The noise almost comforted him, as did the flashing lights of the police cars and the men with the stretcher. Everything seemed eerily calm, and Sherlock didn't say a word as they dragged John's sleeping limbs out of the flat.

For a long while, Sherlock didn't even notice Lestrade standing next to him until he spoke.

"You got punched?" Lestrade's voice was a mixture of amazement, pity and almost laughter.

Sherlock turned, giving a deathly stare. "Obviously," was his only retort.

The white walls of the hospital room seemed to mirror the inside of an ice cube, making it feel impossible that the space could get any colder. Natural light poured in the large paned window to the right of John's bed. The sun's gentle rays seemed to mock the grief and hopelessness that filled that room far too often. Sherlock stood next to the window, his piercing green eyes fixed on some thought hanging by a string along the horizon.

The quiet murmur of the heart monitor served as a metronome as Sherlock played an enchanting melody on the violin in his head. Engrossed in thought, Sherlock almost didn't hear the soft clack of Lestrade's shoes against the tile floor.

Lestrade stood without words as he glanced from John's unconscious body to Sherlock's tall figure looming about the window.

"How are you holding up?" He asked.

"I never broke down." Sherlock's tone couldn't have been more flat as the lifeless words escaped his thoughts. He still peered longingly out the window as Lestrade spoke.

"Talked to one of the doctors on my way in," he started, stepping a bit closer to fill the gap between John's bed and the window, "says it's probably just some god awful concussion," he stepped closer to the nightstand by the bed, "and that if he wakes up soon he should be alright, well, I mean, there could still be some complications I suppose but—"

"'Should be,' 'if,' 'could,' those aren't words in my vocabulary Lestrade. It's yes or no, black or white, okay or not okay, there is no middle ground for me."

"Well then are you okay or not okay?"

For the first time since Lestrade arrived, Sherlock turned to face him. "I'll let you deduce that one on your own." And with that Sherlock abruptly exited the room, his long coat billowing behind him.

"Idiot," was the first word Molly heard Sherlock spit out as she entered the lab. She hesitated, waiting for Sherlock to glance up from the hypnotizing insides of the microscope.

"I'm…I'm sorry?" she stammered as she walked closer to him.

"Idiot," Sherlock repeated, still not sparing Molly a glance.

"I'm sorry, have I done something?" her voice was inquisitive and sheepishly innocent.

"Parker is an idiot."

"Parker? Who's Parker?"

"He made the mistake of entering my home, with sneakers covered in mud."

"I'm still not getting it." Molly pressed, her hands full of folders and papers, not wanting to begin working until Sherlock clarified his story.

"With these samples I can track exactly where he's been and where he might be. What a fool. And Lestrade said he wasn't thick. How wrong he was…" his voice trailed off as he scribbled some illegible notes down on a pad of paper.

"Could you maybe explain yourself a bit?"

"Oh, Molly, when did you get here?"

Molly didn't even have time to be offended before Sherlock's phone went off, brushing away any possibility of further conversation. Sherlock gripped his phone instinctively and pressed it against his ear as he got up to leave the room.

Standing in the hallway, Sherlock could hear the sound of Lestrade's muffled voice through bustling doctors and the constant beep of a heart monitor.

"Sherlock, you there? Got some news." Sherlock tried to deduce the nature of the news through the tone of Lestrade's voice but was overwhelmed by curiosity.

"What is it then?"

"John's awake." He said, sounding a bit less enthusiastic than he should. Sherlock did not give an answer, to which Lestrade added, "That's the good news."

"Just give me the bad news, I can handle it."

"Alright, but you're not going to like it."

The afternoon light showered in as Sherlock helped John into the doorway of the flat. With his left arm in a sling and his right hand practically glues to his cane, suddenly the stairs to the flat seemed like an arduous journey. He lifted up the arm that held his cane and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders as they fumbled awkwardly up the steps.

John winced every now and then, making Sherlock stop to make sure he was alright.

"Almost to the top, John." Sherlock managed the most encouraging voice he could rummage up.

"So I make this climb every day?" John asked Sherlock with wondering eyes.

"Yes, every day. You get used to it."

Finally they reached the top of the steps and Sherlock opened up the door for John, letting him in first with a hand lightly on his back so he wouldn't fall.

John stepped in slowly and examined the room as if for the first time. He scanned the walls and furniture a bit more before exclaiming, "Well, this could be nice, this could be very nice." And he strode over toward the arm chairs.

John was about to plop himself down in the dull forest green armchair before Sherlock suddenly put a hand up, signaling him to stop.

"Wait! That's—erm, that's my…never mind, you can sit."

Puzzled, John allowed himself to sink into the cushions, but soon found himself fidgeting uncomfortably.

"Well, that's not very nice at all." He mumbled as he relocated to the softer armchair with a blanket hung over the back. That proved to be far more comfortable.

"So…this is it then? Where I live?" John asked through timid breaths.

"Yes, where _we_ live. I realize it's a bit cluttered."

"A _bit_?"

There was a sudden rapping at the door, and Sherlock's heart skipped a beat as he remembered the last time John had answered the door. He breathed a sigh of relief however when he heard Mrs. Hudson's shrill and excited voice seeping through the walls.

"Sherlock! Sherlock are you there dear? I hear Dr. Watson is home!" she squealed happily.

Sherlock let her in without thinking to explain anything, a decision he immediately regretted when she rushed toward John and began showering him with hugs and kisses on the forehead. John retracted, frightened by her sudden presence.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock tried, but she wasn't getting it.

"Oh dear how are you! You look awful you could use some tea I bet. Ooh that bloody arm is that alright?"

John sat silent in utter confusion as Sherlock came over and gently pulled Mrs. Hudson away.

"Mrs. Hudson…" the words tried to come out, but for some reason Sherlock found it hard to speak, "John doesn't…he doesn't remember…uhm…"

"Oh dear…" Mrs. Hudson frowned. "I suppose I better be off then,"

"I'm sorry," John interjected.

"John, it's not your fault. My apologies Mrs. Hudson, I should have told you the situation earlier."

"It's quite alright, well, feel better dears!" she offered as she scurried out of the room.

Sherlock headed over for the desk and began the familiar task of rummaging through papers.

"So, who was that? And, can you tell me again exactly what we do? I'm not quite sure I get it all. What are all those papers for?"

"John!" Even Sherlock was startled by the sound of his own yell, not expecting his voice to cut through the air so deeply. John just stared back open-mouthed and confused.

"John, I'm sorry, I'm not exactly in the mood for a questionnaire. I'm working on a case."

"But, I kind of need to know don't I?"

"Not right now, just let me be for a moment." The frustration was slowly leaking through Sherlock's voice. John fell silent, feeling embarrassed and vulnerable.

"Sherlock, I need to know what's going on."

"No, John. I don't need to reiterate my life story to you, not now. We don't know how long it'll take for your memory to come back so for all we know it could come back in an hour and there's no use wasting my time giving you a history lesson." Sherlock hissed.

"Yes and for all we know it could come back in three weeks or worse it could never—" John choked on his own words before growing silent again.

"Just so I know," began Sherlock as he paced around the flat, "just as a point of reference, so I know what I'm dealing with here. What, precisely, is the very last thing you remember? Be specific."

"Oh, um, well, I remember being in my new flat. The walls were kind of dull, bed was a bit small. I remember having my cane, and I was…" John stopped himself for a moment, "I was nervous."

"Why were you nervous?"

"Because I had my first therapy session the next day."

Sherlock's phone interrupted the conversation with a loud buzz, sending Sherlock right back into his case. He perched the phone to his ear and listened like a hawk.

"You what?" he asked, staring off into the distance.

"Alright, don't go anywhere. I'll be there." He hung up and with the speed and agility of an Olympic runner he dashed about the flat, putting on his coat, scarf and gloves.

"Lestrade's got a new lead—you don't know Lestrade—you will. Anyway, real important, kettle's on the stove, don't wait up, gotta go!"

Just before he leapt out the door John managed to yell, "Sherlock! Wait! You can't just—" but the door had already slammed shut behind him, "leave me here…"

Irritated and unfathomably confused, John got up and thought he may as well make himself a cup of tea. He found the kettle on the stove, but looked around in bewilderment at the mess laid out before him.

"Alright, here's the kettle, but where is…everything else.."

When John finally managed to find everything he needed, he steadily picked up his steaming cup of tea with the hand from the arm that was in the cast. He tried to get the mug safely over to the armchair without spilling, but was caught off guard by a small puddle of water on the floor that just managed to let his cane slip, sending the mug flying out of his hand as he fell backwards onto the hard tile floor.

Sherlock effortlessly swiveled into the flat only to be greeted by an angry Mrs. Hudson, who had a blanket wrapped around John as she tried to console him.

"Sherlock!" She spouted like a mother who'd just caught her son sneaking out of the house.

"What's going on here? What happened?"

John looked sleepy as he leaned up against Mrs. Hudson's hip, the subtle glow from the fireplace making everything around it radiate a soft orange color.

"How could you leave him here all by himself! Lucky I heard the glass break or I would've never known he fell!"

Sherlock immediately directed his attention toward John. "You fell? Where? Are you alright?"

"Of course he's alright no thanks to you and your running about! I thought you to know better Sherlock.."

Having disappointed Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, as he only was on rare occasion, was truly sorry, but only to Mrs. Hudson. His feelings toward John were filled with even more anger and frustration than before.

"I am sorry Mrs. Hudson. I'll look after him, forgive me." Mrs. Hudson got up and gave John one last comforting hug before silently and unforgivingly leaving the room.

"Well?" John asked, expecting some kind of explanation or perhaps an apology, but instead was met with an emotionless, "Well what?" from Sherlock.

"How was the case?" he tried to change the subject.

"The case…fine." Was all he could mutter while scribbling more notes and collecting papers.

"Sounds good."

"John I really do think you should get some rest."

"You don't want to talk to me? I barely know who you are and you expect me to sleep soundly in your flat?"

"I told you, I'm not a history book. Get some rest."

"But—"

"Please."

John just stared in absolute disbelief at the tall, lanky figure busy fumbling about the book shelf in search of something John didn't know. Sherlock added, pointing with a book, "Your bedroom is upstairs, but take mine so you don't have to strain yourself, it's across the hall."

Out of sheer exhaustion and no desire to continue arguing, he dragged himself into Sherlock's bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

John awoke to the sound of clapping hands near his forehead. He squinted his eyes open to find Sherlock leering over him, clapping his hands together in an effort to wake him up.

"Alright! Alright I'm up," John groaned. For a moment he'd forgotten completely about his leg and shoulder and tried to get up as if nothing was wrong. Luckily Sherlock was there to catch him when the searing pain made an all too clear reminder of its presence.

"Sit." Sherlock said, as if speaking to a pet, yet somehow John wasn't offended. He just wanted the pain to go away and he just wanted to remember, to remember anything at all, anything that would tell him why on earth he was living with this tall, brown-haired, bright-eyed stranger.

"We're going to look for leads today." Sherlock said as he handed John two pain killers and a glass of water.

"_We_?" John repeated as he forced the pills down.

"Yes, we. I obviously can't leave you here alone so you're coming with me. Perhaps it'll trigger a memory and this will all be over with."

"Alright, makes enough sense. But what's this case all about, anyway?"

John leaned up against a tree for support as Sherlock kneeled down by the river banks where Lestrade had told him Parker disappeared to.

"What are you doing, by the way?" came a familiar voice from the tree.

"Looking for evidence."

"Evidence of what?"

"I'm looking at shoe patterns."

"Shoe patterns?" John couldn't help it, he wanted to see what Sherlock was seeing, so he limped his way over to the banks and looked down to see several different tread marks created by various types of footwear.

Sherlock lurched over the prints with his tiny magnifying glass, incredibly focused.

"John, a little space please." John hadn't realized he'd crept so close to the consulting detective, or maybe he hadn't realized that he needed space at all. He didn't know what Sherlock wanted or what he was doing or when it would be over.

John had ten million questions fluttering around in his head, but all he could mutter was "Sorry," and backed away from the detective at work.

"Aha!" Sherlock shot straight up, closed his magnifying glass and began putting away his notes.

"What? What is it?"

"You wouldn't understand, John."

"Then help me understand."

They were silent for a moment, "Will helping you understand this bring your memory of me back?"

"It might help."

"Alright then. Long story short: guy named Parker—odd name isn't it?—murders someone, a woman, flees the scene, police can't find him, they call us. That night he shows up at our door, tries to kill me, tries to kill you, almost kills you, runs away again. Happy?"

"No."

"Well see? I told you it was pointless." Sherlock started to walk away.

"Wait, Sherlock, why would he want to kill us?"

"Why would anyone want to kill anyone, John?"

"I don't know."

"And now you see my problem." Sherlock turned his back and strode forward, leaving John very, if not more confused than he was before.

That night, since Sherlock was not permitted to leave the house without John trailing at his sides, he invited Lestrade over to discuss the case. Lestrade rolled in at around 9pm, and John was already in bed, exhausted from all the walking with Sherlock earlier.

Sherlock and Lestrade sat facing each other in the arm chairs, speaking in hushed whispers as if trying not to wake a sleeping baby.

"What've you got?" Lestrade asked with wide eyes.

"Foot prints. I know now for certain that Parker ran to the river, I matched up the print and the mud he left behind here with that on the banks. I also know that he ran _into_ the river, took off his shoes then came running back out.

"And how do you know this?"

"There were sock prints, a bit odd don't you think? They perfectly matched his shoe size, and right next to them was a familiar trail of mud."

"So what does all this mean?"

"It means he's been chased into that river before. Think about it, he knew exactly where to run, and when he ran away from this flat the other night he was headed in the same direction. He's not just a petty thief who's accidentally got himself caught up in murder. He's murdered before, and he's willing to do it again."

"Bloody hell…we need to catch this guy, and fast, he's starting to look like a serial killer Sherlock. Listen, I need you to go and do more research tomorrow. Find him, please."

"Yes, but—" suddenly Sherlock's eyes darted toward his bedroom where John was sleeping. The door was slightly creaked open, and Sherlock leaned his head in closer and lowered his voice, "it's a bit hard to get work done with, well,"

Lestrade immediately understood and turned his back to check the bedroom door. "You can't just leave him with Mrs. Hudson? You know until he, remembers?"

"I've gotten strict orders from Mrs. Hudson to have him with me at all times."

"What if, Christ I can't believe I'm suggesting this, what if he didn't know you left? Go out while he's sleeping. You did that anyhow, didn't you? I mean before—"

"Yes, of course, but if he wakes?"

"Leave a note? Tell him to just phone me if he needs anything."

"Brilliant, Lestrade, thank you."

Lestrade left just before 10, and Sherlock knew exactly what he was going to do. And so promptly at 2:30 in the morning, Sherlock ever so quietly wrapped his scarf around his neck and slid his slender arms through his long jacket. Then, swift as a fox, he crept out the door.

Based on examining the material found in the mud from his sneakers Sherlock could determine what area Parker frequented, and the sample of pavement that showed up matched perfectly to a unique blend of asphalt found only in the region near The Last Drop pub. There were other buildings in the area but Sherlock knew better.

Walking briskly down the sullen, lifeless streets of London, Sherlock found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, or looking down next to him out of instinct. Every time he passed a lonely streetlight he could feel a presence weighing down near his side. With every instinctual glance, though, there was no John Watson to eagerly ask obvious questions.

By the time he reached the pub he was thoroughly sick of talking to himself only inside his head. He felt the constant need to blurt his thoughts out loud to the nothingness that surrounded him.

The bar lights still flickered promiscuously in the damp swollen air. He approached the pub, peered in the foggy windows and could see various grey shapes leering about, sharing drinks and searching for excuses to not go home.

Entranced by the curious sight of life at odd hours of the night, Sherlock did not hear the crunch of the pavement as a dark shadowy figure lurked up behind him. Then, without warning, two boney arms wrapped up in a jet black hoodie found themselves curled around Sherlock's neck. He tried to scream but no sound came from his throat as Parker dragged him violently into the darkened alleyway that lived right next to the pub.

A cold brick wall was all Sherlock felt as he was thrust up against it, angry curses jumping out of both men as they struggled to keep a hold of themselves. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was afraid, not because he was being beaten senseless by a potential serial killer, but because it was at that moment that Sherlock realized he had not left John a note.

"Think you're so clever! I know who you are!" Parker shouted as he delivered another blow to Sherlock's ribcage. "I'm not getting caught 'cause of the likes of you!" a punch in the face this time.

"What's it matter who catches you? You're getting caught regardless!" Sherlock managed to spit out between heavy breaths.

And then out of the corner of his ear Sherlock recognized a voice he shouldn't have been hearing.

"Sherlock!" John shouted down the alley, standing next to the side of the pub, still with his arm in a sling but without his cane, and with a firm grip on his pistol, aiming it directly at the unwelcomed figure.

"Who is this clown?" Parker mused with his hands held tight around Sherlock's lapels. "You're pathetic!" he shouted, "Go home, sidekick! I bet you don't even know how to use that thing!" he yelled with a nod towards John's gun.

And without the slightest hesitation, John aimed the gun down and shot with acute accuracy, hitting Parker directly at the back of his knee. Parker let go of Sherlock and squirmed to the ground, shouting and cursing in pain.

Sherlock immediately rushed over to John and placed his hands on his shoulders, babbling almost incoherently, "John how did you, what are doing out of bed? You shouldn't be, where's your cane? Are you alright? How did you—"

"Shh. Sherlock, I know you told me you were this clever this detective, but for someone so clever you sure do whisper loudly when you speak to Lestrade."

The consulting detective almost fell over in a combination of shame, happiness, and getting the daylights beaten out of him. Now John put his arms around Sherlock's to hold him steady, when Sherlock asked, "What do we do now?"

John replied with the most logical answer there was; "Run."

As he attempted to sprint alongside Sherlock, John got out his phone and pressed the speed dial.

"Lestrade? He's in the alleyway."

When the rush of streetlights and damp pavement finally slowed down, Sherlock and John walked side by side back to the flat. Now every time Sherlock looked over his shoulder, there was the reason he was so effortlessly frustrated and fascinated. Unfortunately, the look on John's face did not exhibit the same strange happiness Sherlock was feeling. Instead it was a cold, lonely stare that escaped John's grey-blue eyes.

"You left me." He suddenly said. Sherlock's ears perked up, and he felt a sudden surge of a new feeling, a feeling that hadn't quite gripped him yet, guilt.

"I did."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I could not leave you home, and I could not take with you me."

"I don't understand."

"Either way I was putting you in danger. I picked the lesser of two evils leaving you home."

"No, there's something else. You've been angry with me since I got home from the hospital, like I've done something to you. I don't understand that either."

"It's a similar reason, John. I could leave you home, or I could take you along, but either way you wouldn't be with me."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not you, John. And I know it's not your fault, in fact it's mine, but why would I ever admit that."

"How is it your fault?"

"After Parker attacked us, he ran out of the flat. You had already been flung down one set of stairs. You told me to go after him, but I didn't have to listen. I could have stayed with you. I could have stopped you from—"

"From what?"

"From following me."

There was a long silence before Sherlock finally spoke again.

"I didn't realize…"

"Hm?"

Sherlock stared down at the innocent look of query on John's face, so oblivious to how rare it was that Sherlock be sharing any information even remotely related to emotions.

"I didn't realize how much I looked down to make sure you were there, until you weren't."

There was another prolonged silence as John began to get a headache from all of the confusing words and events.

"You're saying…you're saying you needed me?"

"I will not say those exact words, but, yes."

"Careful Sherlock, we've only just met." A smirk of sarcasm lit up across John's face and a seemingly long forgotten smile crept its way onto Sherlock's.

When they had almost reached the comfort and safety of 221B, John suddenly stopped in his tracks in the middle of the sidewalk. Sherlock continued walking but noticed John's absence almost immediately, and turned around to see him standing there, staring into the ground, as if lost in a trance.

He hurried over and began shaking John's shoulders.

"John? What is it? Are you okay?"

There was no response; he just kept staring, like he'd somehow separated from the entire world.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was getting louder and more frantic, "John can you hear me? John! Snap out of it!" he shook him vigorously one more time before he felt the doctor silently collapse into his arms but immediately bring himself back up. He held on loosely to Sherlock's wrists as he stared up at him with the same look he'd given him the first day he saw him.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" John stammered, and Sherlock's heart sunk into his chest.

"John it's me don't do this, don't do this, please."

"Who's John?" was all he managed to whisper before falling over completely onto the sidewalk, still supported by Sherlock's grip.

"No no no…" Sherlock mumbled to himself as he brought John over and sat him down on a small stoop by a storefront.

"John please wake up, what's going on? John!"

And then with a sudden burst of life, John's eyes flew open, and he flung himself forward, breathing heavily as if awakening from a nightmare. He looked up at Sherlock who was still holding him tight. And then he said something that made the most irritable, insensitive consulting detective in the world break out in a wide toothy grin.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing? Let go of me."

Sherlock released his grip but a portion of his wide grin remained as he and John helped themselves up.

"Why've I got a cast on? What time is it? Shit where are we? Sherlock, what bloody day is it? What's happened?"

"You uhm, you had a little fall, John."

"What? When? How come—"

Sherlock began walking again and John followed suit.

"I'll explain when we get back to the flat. Let's just say you were out of commission for a while."

"Oh…well then, did I miss anything good?"

Sherlock was suddenly hit with a wave of memories: letting John sleep in his bed, which he would never normally do, getting angry with John, which also didn't happen incredibly often, feeling scared, feeling guilty, feeling alone, witnessing John's amazing accuracy with his shot at Parker, and, most importantly, admitting that he needed him.

Sherlock shot John a sly smirk and said, "No, nothing at all."

"Oh, that's alright."

"But John?"

"Yes?"

"Don't you ever leave me like that again. And the next time I've run out of the house after you've fallen down a flight of stairs, don't you dare follow me."


End file.
